When PEOPLExpress Threw Me in Jail
Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s is a time for reflection, looking back upon the year and anticipating the newness to come. As fall becomes winter and we close out this pivotal year of 2020, Jewel and I will take a lighter tone for the remainder of the year and share some personal stories, tales we hope will not only point to our own inner lives and development, but that will resonate on a human level beyond the divisions that politicians, the media, and social scientists use to categorize people. In the midst of all our plural differences, there is that which unifies.
Story and narrative point the way.
We begin this month of personal remembrances with a travel incident from my days as a young adult.
I was pissed, stewing in my seat at the Jacksonville Airport hours after the flight on People Express had been delayed for six hours. The discount airline launched in 1981, the same year I matriculated at Hamilton College as a freshman that September. In the summer between my first and second year of college I visited family in Waycross, Georgia and in Jacksonville, Florida. Usually, I’d have taken the train trip on Amtrak, but why not fly if the rates are reasonable?
But what good is a few dollars less if the damn plane doesn’t leave until six hours later?
I decided to make a unilateral policy decision. Since I’d been inconvenienced, I said to myself, why should I pay a fee for an extra bag in the overhead bin? People Express was the first airline to charge for in-flight baggage. The fee at the time? Three dollars.
The least they could do, I reasoned to myself, is waive the $3 fee. I was firm in my decision and felt completely justified.
Unfortunately, the crew didn’t get the memo. Before boarding the plane, I was asked to pay the fee. I explained why I didn’t think that was fair. They let me on the plane. Now I’m feeling emboldened and puffed up in my self-righteousness. The stewardesses, one after the other, courteously asked me to pay the fee. “We’re sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir, but it’s policy. You must pay the three dollars. If you don’t pay, we’ll have to inform the captain.”
I refused.
By the time they’d had enough and knocked on the cockpit door, I figured I’d made my point. I decided to pay up.
The bearded captain, donning a black flight cap with gold trim, had a grim expression on his face. As he approached, I told him I’d pay.
Too late.
He looked at me and without saying a word pointed and forcefully jerked his arm toward his face, thumb extending past his right ear.
YOU. OUT. NOW was the clear message.
A chill came over me. Two airport security officers escorted me off the plane and I ended up in a holding cell for the night.
The next morning I went in front of a county judge. He looked at me, read the paperwork, and with a Southern drawl said:
Mr. Thomas, I see that you’re a man of principle.
The judge let me go with a slap on the wrist, figuring that my evening in jail would be lesson enough.
He was right. I came to see the wisdom of my father, who, once I got back to New York, said: Son, that’s a no-win situation. Next time wait until you get back home and then write a letter!
As the good book says, there’s a time and a season for all things. Causing a ruckus on an airplane with federal regulations, in a tense time of plane hijackings and Reagan firing air traffic controllers, was not wise. But live and learn, right?
In retrospect, I’m glad that I can laugh at my young hubris. Too many young black men who butt their heads against authority aren’t as fortunate as I was in 1982.